I am Elizabeth Miller, sixty-two years old and a widow. I live in Miami, where the sound of the waves and the smell of toasted bread mark the rhythm of life. The bakery, Seaside Sweets, tucked away in the Art Deco district, is not just my workplace but the home of my heart. Every morning before the sun rises, I get up and, with my hands rough from flour and years, I begin to knead and bake fresh croissants and bagels. This bakery is everything I have, the place where I raised my only son, Charles, alone after my husband died in a storm at sea almost three decades ago.